


Dining à la Werewolf

by not_laurence



Category: Mercy Thompson Series - Patricia Briggs
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 21:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17649890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_laurence/pseuds/not_laurence
Summary: A domestic challenge leads to revelations about Warren's past.





	Dining à la Werewolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sadlikeknives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadlikeknives/gifts).



> **Request:** I'm very into Domesticity With Werewolves, apparently, so give me some of that - and - Something involving Warren's century and a half of history as a werewolf cowboy before he met Kyle. 
> 
> **Author's Notes:** The Wolf Man (1941) film starred Bela Lugosi as one of the werewolves. It was remade as The Wolfman in 2010 and starred Anthony Hopkins as one of the wolves. Please see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wolf_Man_(1941_film) and https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wolfman_(2010_film) for details. 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit by them.

It was his turn to cook. Usually Kyle ruled the kitchen in this house. And despite being no wolf, Kyle could be remarkably territorial when it came to his kitchen. He’d learned to be, given his home was sometimes also a refuge to women who, invariably, liked to cook. Normally, Warren could relax and sit back and enjoy the result of Kyle’s efforts in the kitchen. However, a while back, Kyle had decreed that when he had pack members over for film night, catering was _Warren’s_ responsibility. 

“I’m not making a three-course meal for your packmates only for them to scoff it all in three minutes flat!” he’d declared. 

Wolfish appetites had made short shrift of Beef Wellington on that occasion, before ordering takeaway. 

For several months Warren had managed by ordering pizza and KFC. Once, when Kyle was out of town on a big case, he had enlisted Zack’s skills in making pies and bread rolls. (Long past was the time when Zack made ends meet washing dishes; these days he was employed as a master baker at a local bakery.) However, last week Warren and Kyle had played various tricks on one another for April Fools. Kyle had played the most devilish trick of all: he’d dared Warren to cook – _really_ cook – for the pack next time he had them over. 

He could have satisfied the dare by holding a barbeque, but it was still a bit too early in the year (especially this year, given the way winter had lingered into spring). Besides, Kyle’s superior smirk irritated him. The kitchen might not be his first choice of battlefield; but Warren would not concede defeat without even making an effort.

Slow cooking had filled the kitchen with mouth-watering aromas of simmering venison and herbs, stewing with onions, carrots, celeriac, and a bottle of claret. Three large casseroles of potato dauphinoise filled the oven. And not one but two giant salads graced the dining table, along with French bread, assorted cold meats, cheeses, and olives to supplement the main course. A quick phone call to his Alpha’s mate had led to the promise of brownies. Zack had promised apple and cinnamon strudel. (That _wasn’t_ cheating, Warren reminded himself. He’d promised to cook, not bake.) Nor was it cheating, when Aiden was amongst those who arrived early, to leave him in the kitchen with strict instructions not to let anything burn, while Warren went upstairs to change out of sauce-bedaubed clothes. 

He had just stepped out of the shower and was towelling himself dry in the steamy bathroom when Kyle’s arms slipped round him from behind and he was pulled into an embrace. 

“You’ll ruin that fancy suit by getting it wet,” he warned. 

“That’s not the only thing that will get wet,” retorted Kyle, before giving him a gentle bite on the shoulder. 

Warren spun round to face Kyle, gave him a quick kiss, before reminding him werewolf ears would hear anything. 

“As long as you promise me a rain-check,” Kyle said, as he stripped out of his suit to step into the shower. 

“It’s a deal,” Warren replied. He stood watching for a few seconds, before he went in search of clothes.

“What is it tonight?” Kyle asked three-quarters of an hour later as he joined the handful of guests who were dotted around the sofas and chairs in the living room. 

“ _The Wolfman_ ,” chorused Ben and George. 

“1941 version first,” explained Darryl, “because we all just _cannot_ get enough of Bela Lugosi. The chorus howled its approval of this sentiment. 

“Closely followed by the 2010 remake,” added Auriele, “for those of us who are Hopkins fans.” 

Kyle nodded, watching for a few minutes, before he went in search of Warren. The dining room held the remains of the feast, but no Warren, and he crossed it to the door into the kitchen. 

“I saved you a plate,” Warren said, as he loaded the dishwasher. 

“How did you know it was me without even turning around?” asked Kyle quietly. 

Warren turned now and grinned. “ _How_ long have we been together and you still ask me that?” He gestured toward a plate on the counter, found some silverware in a drawer, and a clean napkin. “The conservatory is free.” 

“Don’t you want to join your friends?” 

Warren shook his head, “not tonight.” Silently he padded toward the rear of the house and the heated garden room Kyle had added to his home last year. Giant palms and bromeliads framed a comfortable sofa and double-sized bean bags. 

They sat quietly, the only sound Kyle’s steady eating. Eventually he laid the plate to one side and pulled Warren into his arms. 

“That meal was wonderful,” he said, “much more than just a cowboy cook-out.” 

“Not much call for cordon-bleu on a cattle drive,” Warren joked. 

“Tell me….” 

“I grew up in Louisiana….” 

Kyle laughed softly, “and here I always thought you an English cowboy.”

Warren gave a low growl, “in English-speaking Shreveport.” 

Kyle nodded, then rubbed his face against Warren’s hair in encouragement.

“I ran to New Orleans after my folks threw me out when they found me in the hayloft with my friend when I was 14 – ended up as a kitchen boy and worked my way up to cook.” 

“Until you heard the call of the wild and drifted over Texas-way,” Kyle mimicked Warren’s drawl. 

“After I was turned early in the war, New Orleans didn’t exactly seem like a safe choice – too many people had expected me to die. They started asking awkward questions.” Warren rubbed his cheek against Kyle’s sweatshirt, before rolling it up and burrowing his nose into Kyle’s stomach. “And there were lots of wagon trains west; anyone who could ride a horse and was handy with a fry-pan could always find work.” 

“So, you left fancy French cooking behind and became a cowboy instead.” 

“Trapper, cow-herd…you name it.” Warren raised his head and looked Kyle straight in eyes. “Sort of forgot about fine cuisine.” 

“Until now,” Kyle tugged Warren’s face down to his and kissed his nose.

“Until you made me remember.” Warren lifted his mouth to Kyle’s. 

It was several moments before Kyle reminded, “we have guests.” 

“Later then,” Warren said, levering himself up and pulling Kyle up beside him. “Let’s see what kind of a werewolf Hopkins makes.” 

“And later I can see how my own personal werewolf compares,” Kyle quipped. 

Laughing, they made their way back to the living room and their friends.


End file.
